Dave Duncan - Children of Chaos

The cold earth ... Blood and the cold earth ? No, that wasn't right

Paola had been laid to rest where she died—in a respectable grave, it was worth remembering, in a marble sarcophagus and faceup. Half the population had come to the service. She had been a loving, most utterly perfect mother, not an evil monster. Her almsgiving had been the wonder of the city. Everyone who knew her had loved her well.

But...

But she had not merely been lax in offering sacrifice in the Pantheon. In the long dark of the night, Frena could not recall any instance of her mother going there to offer sacrifice. As the wife of one of the wealthiest men on the Face, she must have seen fewer of life's troubles than most women, but had there been no sicknesses or worries to prompt her to importune the Bright Ones? No friends or favored servants in trouble? In her final illness, why had she rejected all physical help from holy Sinura and comfort from holy Nula? And the manner of her death—had some ghastly aspect of Xaran dragged the dying woman from her bed, stripping her near-naked, before sucking out the last of her life under some bushes? Or had Paola Apicella returned voluntarily to a dark mistress and the cold earth?

Had the watchdog Quera been incompetent or victim of some evil art?

If Frena for the first time in her life did not trust what her mother had been, she must also admit that, for the first time in her life, she did not trust what her father said. His excuse for rushing her into a dedication ceremony in such disreputable haste did not ring true. What did he know or suspect that he would not discuss?

twelve

ORLAD ORLADSON

threw off his covers and was on his feet before the last note of reveille faded. Shivering. He heard groans and grumbles from adjoining stalls.

The sun was not yet up, and he could barely see the bunk he had just left. In contrast to its prolonged and bloody sunsets, Nardalborg's dawns were dramatic. The sun's coronal glory rose into a night sky full of stars that refused to fade until the ineffable disk itself came burning up over the Ice. For a few moments the world was monochrome white—glittering white castle set in stark white moorland; there was never a night without frost or snow at Nardalborg. Only when the sun itself showed above the horizon did the sky reluctantly begin to turn blue.

This was the day he must march out and face the world; face down the other nine, he and his little flank of runts. He was alone in his stall. A stall it was, with a drape across the front, a shelf, a few hooks, just a blanket and sleeping rug on the floor. This was how cadets and probationers were billeted. Last night there had been celebrations and women's voices in his neighbors' stalls. Normally there would be no lack of willing female companionship for a new runtleader, perhaps even for a Florengian runtleader, if such a thing could be imagined, but Orlad kept clear of women. They offered too many opportunities for hurt. When he had won his brass collar and shown the men what he could do, then he would show their women also.

Donning a Werist pall without help was no small matter. Start by tossing one end back over the left shoulder, long enough to reach the kidneys. Drape the rest across the chest, wrap it around to cover the back, then the left hip, privates, right hip, buttocks; bring it up across the back, under the left arm, and over the right shoulder. If it had been judged correctly, the end should come to the kidneys, level with the other. All correct so far. Then—moving gingerly because this was when it might collapse—take up the sash and tie it around the waist in a half-knot. That should hold everything in place. Theoretically. There remained the problem of moving at all under what felt like an ox's weight of wool. When the quartermaster had dropped the baled cloth across his eagerly outstretched arms last night, Orlad had staggered under the sheer weight of it. He had spent half the night practicing by starlight, and now the time had come for him to go forth garbed as a Werist, instead of a scabby civilian in tunic and leggings with a rope around his neck. The years of chafing were over.

To have come in first was the stuff of dreams. Gzurg would never give praise without cause, and he had praised the Nardalborg training highly. To be approved by a Hero such as the legendary Gzurg, to be trained by Heth, and to swear one's oath to the great Therek, the Vulture himself—all these were lifelong honors, humbling starts to a career. But to be first was best of all. Ten new cadets. Nine runts and one runtleader. Nine leather collars and one chain.

Gzurg had warned Orlad what was coming, but no one else had known. Everyone had been struck dumb. Later, of course, they had cheered Snerfrik! They hadn't seen that the more they rattled the rafters for the man who had come second, the more they had really been honoring First. There had been no other surprises until the end, when Waels had sneaked in under the bar as number ten. His name had been greeted mostly with puzzled silence, until someone had explained, "Pusmouth." Oh, yes, Pusmouth ...

Orlad inspected himself with his hands and decided the folds across his chest were rumpled. Determined not to make his first appearance as runtleader in a poorly wrapped pall, he stripped, spread the absurd garment on the floor and began folding it again for another attempt. Feet and voices went by in the corridor.

"How much authority does a runtleader really have?" he had asked Gzurg.

"As much as he can take; no more than he can hold." The old rogue's laugh had displayed all sixty-four teeth. "You, son, had better draw some lines in the sand very quickly and defend them to the death. Preferably someone else's death."

Only on his fourth attempt was Orlad satisfied—and almost out of time. A Werist! A pall-draped, chain-collared Werist! Cadet Orlad, in stripes of orange (for the Vulture's host), green (for the Nardalborg Hunt), and white for cadet. After so many years of yearning and trying, he was at last dressed as he had longed to be. The white would go soon enough. He had sworn the oath; now he belonged to the god.

A pall was a very drafty garment. He felt certain it would all drop to the floor at any minute and leave him naked, but that was its purpose—Werists assuming battleform had no time to waste struggling with clothes. He felt ridiculous, but that, too, must pass in time. He was stiff and bruised from the tests, which had been even more grueling than he had expected, and badly short of sleep, but all these were part of the process. The cut on his arm where he had drawn blood for his oath was healing well. He felt great.

Runtleader Orlad stepped into his sandals, pushed aside the curtain, and strode forth. Half the curtains were still closed, and he could even hear snores from some of the stalls he passed, but most of the men billeted in this dorm were nothing to do with him. If any of his flank were late for roll call, then he would take action. He was almost at the door when a curtain slid aside and out came Pusmouth. Good timing!

Orlad stopped. "Death to your foes, Runt Waels."

Pusmouth nodded hastily. "My lord is kind."

"Not lord." Orlad practiced a Werist frown and was pleased to see the kid flinch.

"My leader is kind." Waels waited cautiously to hear what was wanted. No one knew much about him. He was one of a trio of probationers sent up from Tryfors to participate in the tests. He had seemed so young and unassertive that the oddsmakers had given him little chance, but last night when the other two Tryfors boys slunk out with the jeers of the entire Nardalborg Hunt howling about their ears, he had remained. His nickname came from a wine-colored birthmark covering the lower half of his face. His gossamer beard could not hide it yet and probably never would.